Leeds
was not as we expected. We sped through the village a number of times, eyes
peeled for an Irish Grossinger’s replete with golf course and Olympic style
swimming pool.

Eventually
we found the more utilitarian O’Shea’s Irish Center and thus began one of the
great summers of my life. It didn’t start too auspiciously, for we knew none of
the waltzes and foxtrots favored by the regulars. Luckily, a large group of
young waiters from a nearby Italian resort dropped in and we bopped them ‘til
they dropped.

Within
a week we were the toast of the town – such as it was – although I suspect
people came as much to look as listen. I hadn’t shorn my hair or beard for over
a year, and Turner’s cut was akin to David Cassidy’s on steroids.

If
we looked different, we fit right in as regards carousing, gambling, and all
the other pastimes that back then attended the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle. Though
it was the mid-1970’s, that summer the 60’s hit Leeds with a bang.

Not
that Jerry and Mrs. O’Shea seemed to notice. What a lovely couple! Forty years
out of Kerry and you could still cut their accents with a knife. Mrs. O’Shea’s
specialty was a formidable meatloaf that she served with great regularity;
perhaps more to the point she had a kind word for everyone’s hangover.

She did insist that all her staff
take three communal meals a day; this caused no end of problems at the
breakfast table as few had hit bed before dawn.

Mr.
Jerry O’Shea had been a boxer. His favorite pastime was to feint the unwary with
a left hook, then hammer home a straight right to the shoulder that caused near
paralysis. Needless to say, his staff was always on its toes.

Down
the street in Gilfeather’s Sligo Tavern, the late, lamented Joe Nellany held
court. Joe may have occasionally played his accordion without a lit cigarette
dangling from his lower lip, but never in my presence.

Gerry Finlay and Tommy Mulvihill,
the soundest of musicians and gentlemen, were stalwarts in his Sligo Aces,
while in nearby East Durham, Dermie Mac belted out rockers and, to our
considerable chagrin, was adored by the ladies.

We spent our Mondays at the free
concerts in Saratoga Springs or in Woodstock where one blessed night we sat next
to members of The Band in Tinker Street Café.

We
wasted away steamy days in the river below O’Shea’s; it was on the nearby rocks
I began my first novel – it was god-awful, but it hooked me on this writing
business.

The
O’Sheas have long gone. But I bet there are many loyal Echo subscribers who
remember them, for everyone in Leeds devoured this paper in those serene
pre-internet days.

Eventually,
the summer ended and we all went our separate ways. I didn’t return until the 1990’s
with Black 47. The world had changed immeasurably but everything in Leeds and
East Durham seemed much the same. That’s the glory of the mountains – peace,
continuity and simplicity.

To
everyone up there this summer, I wish you the best, and let’s raise a glass for
those no longer with us. Here’s to the Catskills!

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